


in the bruising light

by akadiene



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, References to Drugs, and extended maritime metaphors, but what kind of drugs?, it's open to interpretation, references to mental illness, this is just angst and hate sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-03
Updated: 2016-10-03
Packaged: 2018-08-19 08:22:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8197739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akadiene/pseuds/akadiene
Summary: there are things that won't ever leave the dark. you're not sure yet if this has to be one of them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jacksbits (fragilehuge)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilehuge/gifts).



> this is post 3.8 and also i decided not to fuck with capitals (mostly). it's a ~stylistic choice~ ya know
> 
> tumblr is [batlardo](http://batlardo.tumblr.com/post/151250361966/in-the-bruising-light) right now but usually [fatlardo](http://fatlardo.tumblr.com/post/151250361966/in-the-bruising-light). happy halloween!!! 
> 
> title is from [Harriet by Hey Rosetta!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CFen4mcA-R8) from their amazing album Second Sight which is admittedly not a very angsty-sounding song but what can ya do when you're shit at coming up with titles?

no one told you when you first started playing in vegas how much of your life, and of _you_ , would have to held close to your chest and never let go, never shone the light. no one told you, because you’d already been doing it for years.

_don’t tell anyone i sucked your dick, kenny, and i won’t tell anyone you sucked mine. don’t tell anyone about my drugs, kenny, and i won’t tell anyone about yours._

but it’s – you keep the secrets close but you’re not the only one. the things you hide don’t see light because sometimes others’ eyes have adjusted to the darkness and they can spot them from a mile away. anyway, you don’t put away the stuff in your medicine cabinet after the men you sleep with leave anymore. who the fuck are they going to tell? your dicks are your insurance.

“it’s like a gaydar,” you told your psychiatrist as she was writing up a refill for your prescription. “except for like – unstable minds. and, and i guess a regular gaydar too.”

“you’re observant, kent. you’ve built a life out of it,” she said. 

sometimes you forget you’re not the only one.

mashkov buzzes your condo at twenty to one in the morning the same night of your win against him. you don’t ask yourself how you knew it would be him – just like you don’t ask how he knew your address, or that you would let him up and open your door. sometimes there are answers you don’t need.

“that was not just playing game,” is the first thing he says, taking your statement to the press from earlier and twisting it around. “it was personal for you.”

his voice sounds like stone. low, hard, rumbling. a landslide. and a body as big as a mountain.

“so what if it was,” you say. you step aside to let him in, but you don’t turn on the lights. 

“you forget,” mashkov says. “i’m start at same time in nhl as you.”

you keep your face empty as he follows you to the kitchen where you pour him a vodka tonic and yourself a rye and ginger ale that’s more pop than liquor.

“okay,” you say. he looks you in the eye as he downs the drink in one shot. you won’t give him more – you’re both professional athletes, and you shouldn’t be drinking at all. “so you’ve heard all the rumours, i get it. i’ve got issues. whatever.”

“leave it off ice,” he says.

you stare. “he hasn’t–”

“nothing. he tells me nothing,” mashkov says. “he does not need to.”

“so, what,” you say, “you and snowden fucking? or is it you and jack?”

“is not about me,” he says. “never bring problems on ice, parson.”

in the q when you used to play in halifax you and jack and sometimes some others used to go down the hill from the metro centre to the waterfront, and walk along the boardwalk. it was cold and all the little shops were closed, the boats gone for the winter, but the seagulls were still around, flying close to the dirty, ice-sludgy waters of the harbour and above the city. they flew down for scraps  and cried loudly in the wind and landed on the boardwalk in little groups, leaving footprints in the brown snow. you never saw halifax in the summer -- you think you might like it. you had a guy from there on the team, some tall lanky ginger with an accent you never heard from again after you got drafted, but once he pointed out the island in the middle of the harbour, said that it was called georges island. just like that, no apostrophe. it used to be a fortress, he said, but more like a prison, hundreds of years ago. it had a lighthouse on it, surrounded by trees. for a long time after you imagined yourself as the island and jack as the tide, leaving but always coming back, lapping the shore, never one without the other for very long. needing each other forever.

then you realized how lonely it was, being an island. you decided instead to be a seagull.

“okay,” you say. mashkov steps closer. “okay.”

he is big. which is too simple a word for him, really, but he takes up space – in your kitchen, on the ice, in any room he goes. he has long limbs and a loud voice and you’ve heard his laughter, how it fills whatever room it is contained within, like water, but more substantial.

“we’re not on the ice right now,” you say. he is very close now. maybe you should be scared. maybe you’re going to tell your therapist tomorrow how you felt no fear.

“no,” he says. you press your hand to his chest and just like that he has your biceps in his grip and you’re on the tips of your toes to kiss him – fight him – it’s all the same, probably. he is big but you are fast and soon you’ve got your hands in his hair and you’re bringing his face down closer so you don’t have to stretch so much, and you’re pressing his body back against the marble countertop of your kitchen island. probably he could overtake you with barely any effort but he lets himself be pushed for now. 

without prompting he unbuttons his shirt while your work on memorizing his neck. it’s at just the right height. you pull the gold necklace he’s always wearing to the side and he grunts when you kiss the place where his neck meets his expansive shoulder. you wonder how many other men have found this secret, if any of them are the same who’ve shared yours.

soon you are both naked and hard, your clothes fallen onto the tile floor, and his body is as wide as a tree-trunk and just as sturdy, practically unyielding as you pull him down the hall to your bedroom without breaking contact at the mouth.

it’s pretty fucking good.

he barely waits before pushing you onto the foot of your unmade bed. you can’t see much in the dark but you feel him staring at you. when you close your eyes the feeling doesn’t go away.

“where–” he says.

“bottom drawer, behind you,” you say. breathless. your heart is beating so fast you know after he’s gone and you calm down you’re going to have trouble remembering the details, like you do after fights on the ice or with your mother. and like that, time speeds up – soon he is back and you are on your stomach and he has fingers inside you twisting stretching widening and then you are on your knees, panting, and he is pushing in and pulling you close over and over and over again. in and out and all around you, filling you.

you had almost forgotten you were empty before.

he’s not gentle. you don’t need gentle. he does not speak, either, and it’s better that way. you come first – he’s slicked his hand up and is pumping your dick at the same rhythm as he thrusts and it’s a lot, nearly too much, but you’ve done this before and know what your body can take, and take, and take. when you’re done he doesn’t stop, keeps going until he’s come with a grunt while you let yourself feel it and be overwhelmed by it. he’s fucking relentless – well, you knew that just from playing against him. you wonder what it would be like to play with him, if he would still say things like _leave it off the ice_ if he knew that bringing your anger and bitterness to it is probably one of the reasons you are the best player in north america right now. that every time the puck slides off your stick and into the net you feel like you’re breaking down another wall of your fortress.

when he comes he falls on top of you, still inside you, the lube slowly growing tacky against your heated skin, his heavy weight and panting breath inescapable.

eventually he rolls away and the mattress shifts as he stands to pull off his condom and hold his hand out for yours, which he throws away together in the little bin next to your bedside table. the moon shifts and through your window it illuminates the right half of his body, his necklace glinting in the light, and you look up at him, spent, hazy.

“are you going to stay,” you say. you don’t really know what you want to hear.

“no,” he says, almost derisively.

“good,” you say. good.

when you wake later to the sun streaming in, it takes you a second to remember why you’re on the wrong side of the bed, why you didn’t close your curtains before falling asleep. you’re almost sure it was a dream, even when you do remember. until you’re showered and dressed and you go to the kitchen to find two single glasses in the previously empty dishwasher. and even then, you don’t really accept it until you find a note on the marble countertop, one that’s seen more bare asses than just yours.

it’s written on the back of an envelope from the bank, which was lying next to the toaster you’re pretty sure, and the handwriting is messy and blocky. unfamiliar.

 _JUST PLAY THE GAME_ , it says.

you read it twice before you crumple it up and throw it away.

maybe, you think as you type in your gm’s number into your phone and take a deep breath, maybe you don’t have to keep so many secrets anymore.


End file.
